Sherlock
by LaraCroftTR65
Summary: A series of prompt words that tell many different stories from Sherlock's life. Everything from Kid!Lock to Teen!Lock, Uni!Lock, right up to Sherlock now and his friends and enemies. Some stories will have spoilers for season 1 and 2.
1. Abandon

1: Abandon

When he was twelve, John Watson moved house. The whole family spent the weekend packing boxes and moving them on to the lorry, and then they walked out the door for the last time.

John was excited for his new house. He couldn't wait to move in, mostly because he would be getting a bigger bedroom, and this time he had been allowed to decorate it himself. Plus, they were moving to the country, which his dad said meant there was much more room to play. It was going to be good.

John peered eagerly out of the car window as they pulled into the drive of their new house. It was a big house, covered in dash and it wasn't attached to another one, like their old house. He loved it already.

John helped his family carry some of the lighter boxes inside until the lorry was empty and everything had been moved inside. He sighed as he stared at the boxes in his room. He really didn't want to start unpacking now.

His father smiled as he saw his son staring forlornly at the boxes. He patted John's shoulder and grinned.

'You know, you worked really hard today. Why don't you take a break ad go exploring? We can unpack later.'

'Really?' John asked, his eyes lighting up in excitement.

'Yeah, go and have some fun,' his dad smiled.

'Thanks Dad!' John yelled and raced downstairs, jumping the last few steps and flying out through the front door. He hitched a right at his drive and ran back down the road they had driven up. He had seen one or two houses along this way, and he wondered if any of them had children that he could play with.

He crept up to the gate of the first house, which was a small red bungalow, with a tidy garden blooming with flowers and trees. John stretched up on to his tip-toes, craning his neck to see who lived there. From where he stood, he could see an elderly couple in the living room, watching television together.

'Let's try the next house,' John thought to himself, running further down the lane.

A little further down and round a corner was the only other house on this part of the lane. It was a big house, with black wrought iron gates and a huge lawn outside that was neatly trimmed.

John sneaked up to the gates, and peered through, wondering who lived here. He craned his neck, trying to peek inside when suddenly something smashed into his side and knocked him to the ground.

'Haha, got you, Myc -,'

John looked up to see a young boy with inquisitive blue eyes and a mop of black curls staring down at him in confusion. He was holding a toy sword to John's neck and was wearing a black pirate's hat crookedly on his head.

The confusion in the boy's eyes turned to annoyance and he hopped off John.

'You're not Mycroft,' the boy grumbled, almost as if he was annoyed with John for not being Mycroft.

'No, I'm John. I just -'

'Moved in up the road. I saw you drive past earlier,' the boy finished, turning away and walking back towards the iron gates.

'Oh,' John said. 'So what's your name?' he called after him politely.

'I'm Sherlock,' the boy replied, turning back and tilting his hat to John.

'Nice to meet you, Sherlock.'

Sherlock was glancing about, his eyes darting around as if he was searching for something.

'Are you - are you okay?' John asked unsurely.

'Hmm? Yeah, I'm just looking for Mycroft. I thought he was going to steal my treasure,' Sherlock explained, not paying much attention to John.

'Who's Mycroft?' John asked.

'My older brother. He's fourteen,' Sherlock told him.

'How old are you?' John asked, looking at the small, slight frame of the boy. He couldn't be that old.

'Seven,' Sherlock replied.

'Isn't seven a bit young for a pirate?' John joked, smiling at Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he glared at John.

'No,' he snapped.

'Sorry,' John mumbled. 'I bet you make a great pirate. I like your hat,' he grinned, pointing to Sherlock's lopsided hat.

Sherlock smiled at John, his little nose wrinkling slightly as he did.

'Do you want to see my ship?' he offered.

'Yeah,' John agreed enthusiastically.

'Come on,' Sherlock grabbed John's hand and dragged him round to the back of the house.

'So where's this ship then?' John asked, staring at the empty back garden.

'Here,' Sherlock said, pointing to a tree as if it was obvious.

'This is your ship?' John asked incredulously.

'Yes,' Sherlock smiled proudly, grabbing on to a lower branch and hoisting himself up into the tree.

'Come on,' he called down as he scrambled up higher into the branches.

John slowly climbed up after Sherlock, carefully holding on to the branches for dear life. He had only climbed a little way up when he found Sherlock sitting on a branch, staring out into the distance.

'Wow,' John breathed as he looked out. You could see everything from up here. There were fields and fields of green, and a few houses dotted amongst them. There was even a wind turbine in the distance and the view went on and on until it reached up into the pale blue mountains standing proudly in the distance.

'John, hoist the sail!' Sherlock yelled, snapping John's attention back to the tree ship.

'Aye aye Captain,' John laughed and saluted Sherlock, pretending to hoist a sail up into the branches.

The boys played pirates for hours in the tree, until an older boy came out from Sherlock's house and called him in for tea.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation.

'Coming, Mycroft.'

John noticed how the younger boy rolled his eyes as he said his brother's name.

Sherlock turned to John and said, 'I've got to go, John. See you tomorrow?'

John smiled and nodded happily. Sherlock grinned in reply and then he reached out and grabbed a branch, shouted 'Abandon ship!' and leapt down from the tree, landing softly in the grass.

John watched as the small boy ran into his house, his curls bouncing as he went. He followed Sherlock's example and dropped from the tree. He crept out of the gate and ran back up towards his home. He couldn't wait to tell his family about his new pirate friend.


	2. Allow

2: Allow

Mycroft Holmes was in his room, studying for his upcoming O level tests. Or at least, he was attempting to. It was extremely difficult to concentrate when your nine year old little brother was scratching away at his violin next door.

'Sherlock! Keep it down!' Mycroft called in for the third time, but Sherlock continued to play as loudly as before.

If there was one upside to this, it was that Sherlock could at least play the violin. 'The whole ordeal would be considerably worse if Sherlock was playing badly,' Mycroft thought to himself.

He sighed and turned his attention back to his geography text book, but he could not concentrate while Sherlock continued to play.

'Sherlock, stop playing the violin. I'm trying to study!' Mycroft demanded, once again lifting his attention from inner city development.

'No! I'm trying to learn a new piece,' his brother's voice snapped from the other room. The violin became even louder, but now Sherlock just played random notes, getting faster and faster, just to irritate Mycroft.

'Don't make me order you,' Mycroft threatened.

'I'd like to see you try.'

Mycroft dropped his head into his hands and sighed exasperatedly. The notes slowed again and morphed back into the sweet melody that Sherlock had been playing earlier.

After a few minutes, the playing stopped and Mycroft lifted his head out of his hands and listened.

He could hear Sherlock rummaging around inside his storage space, although Mycroft had no idea what his little brother was searching for in there, but he decided to seize the opportunity.

The sixteen year old crept down the hall into Sherlock's room and lifted the violin silently from his bed. Mycroft took it back to his room and placed it on top of his wardrobe, well out of Sherlock's reach.

He sank back into his chair and began reading again. He listened very carefully as Sherlock crawled back out of his storage, waiting for the inevitable.

'Mycroft!'

Sherlock stomped down the hall and stormed into his older brother's room.

'Where is it?' he demanded, a scowl dominating his little face.

'Where is what, Sherlock?' Mycroft asked innocently.

'Don't be stupid,' Sherlock snapped. 'Where is my violin?'

'I will give it back when I have finished studying,' Mycroft reasoned calmly.

'Give it back now,' Sherlock snarled, clenching his fists at his side.

'No,' Mycroft shook his head and turned back to his book.

'Fine,' Sherlock grumbled. 'I'll find it then.'

'Very good, Sherlock,' Mycroft replied uninterestedly. 'Why don't you deduce where it is?'

'That would be far too easy,' Sherlock sneered. 'I have a better idea.'

'Which is?' Mycroft queried, still paying little attention to his brother.

'I will just tear your room apart looking for it,' Sherlock grinned proudly.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft turned around warningly.

'I wonder where it is?' Sherlock asked innocently. 'Is it in here?' He pulled the sheet off Mycroft's bed and tossed it in a heap on the floor.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft threatened.

'No,' Sherlock feigned confusion. 'Maybe in here?'

He grabbed Mycroft's school bag and tipped it upside down, scattering the contents along the floor.

'Not there either. Maybe over here,' he walked over towards Mycroft's desk.

'Sherlock, stop,' Mycroft said angrily, his eyes narrowing.

'Give it back then,' Sherlock snapped.

'Fine,' Mycroft conceded, nettled. He rose out of his seat and lifted the violin back down from his wardrobe, handing it to Sherlock.

'Will you let me play it?' Sherlock scowled mockingly at Mycroft.

'Yes, yes, I allow you to play it. Quietly,' he added.

'We'll see,' Sherlock smiled and swept out of the room.

The violin picked up again from down the hall and Mycroft sighed, sitting down again.

After several minutes, the music stopped and Mycroft listened for his little brother, but there was no noise coming from his room.

His curiosity piqued, Mycroft walked to his brother's room and pushed the door open. He found Sherlock lying upside down over the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

'I thought you wanted to play the violin?' Mycroft asked.

'I did,' Sherlock replied nonchalantly. 'And I did play it. Now I'm bored again.'

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. There was just no pleasing him.


	3. Anticipation

3: Anticipation

Sherlock had been anticipating this ever since Moriarty had let them walk free from that swimming pool. His next little game, his next distraction. Then came the text.

_Come and play. Tower Hill. Jim Moriarty x._

And the game had begun again.

It started with the trial, which Sherlock remained at home for the end of. He knew what was coming, and he didn't have to bother going to the courtroom to hear it.

'Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, James Moriarty stands accused of several counts of attempted burglary; crimes - which if he is found guilty - will illicit a very long custodial sentence, and yet his legal team had chosen to offer no evidence whatsoever to support their plea. I find myself in the unusual position of recommending a verdict wholeheartedly. You must find him guilty.'

Sherlock had anticipated the verdict, John's angry call and Moriarty appearing in his flat. He knew why Moriarty was there, but Jim seemed in no rush to get to his point. But Sherlock knew where this conversation was leading. Moriarty was here to boast about the beginning of his game.

'So how are you going to do it? Burn me?' Sherlock asked, casually sipping his tea.

'Oh that's the problem. The final problem. Have you worked out what it is yet? What's the final problem? I did tell you, but did you listen?' Moriarty sang maniacally.

'It's going to start very soon, Sherlock. The fall.'

And there it was. 'Finally,' Sherlock thought to himself.

'I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I owe you.'

After that, it went quiet for two months. Sherlock went about his life, solving cases, playing violin, doing what he normally did, but always, in the very depths of his mind, he was anticipating Moriarty's game. Sherlock almost yearned for it to begin. He was bored and Moriarty's last game had been thrilling. Moriarty wasn't the only one who needed a distraction from the tediousness of life.

And one case began the game he had anticipated for so long. The kidnapping of those two kids from boarding school. The fairy tale, 'Hansel and Gretel' brought to life. Well, Moriarty had referred to himself as a 'good old fashioned villian.'

But what Sherlock hadn't anticipated was the little girl screaming when she saw him. Or the cab ride afterwards and Moriarty's 'Sir Boast-a-lot' story. After that, it hadn't taken Sherlock long to figure out what Moriarty's game was. He was destroying Sherlock's reputation - that much was obvious.

'One photograph. That's his next move. Moriarty's game. First the scream, then the photograph of me being taken in for questioning. He wants to destroy me inch by inch. It is a game, Lestrade, and not one I'm willing to play.'

Nobody else seemed to catch on. Why couldn't they see what was right under their noses? Moriarty was playing with all of them; playing with their minds, and most people were just too stupid to resist it. But Sherlock continued to play, still trying to anticipate where Moriarty was taking this game. Where was it all going to end?

Until he figured out the answer to that question, he had no choice but to play along. He had to let Moriarty think he was winning to give Sherlock time to figure out exactly what was going on.

'I'm doing what Moriarty wants - becoming a fugitive.'

The assassin that saved him from the bus gave him another piece of the puzzle.

'He planted it when he came around...Get Sherlock...'

And the meeting with Moriarty in Kitty Riley's flat gave him another.

'Rich Brook, an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty.'

It had only been walking down the street after the encounter that Sherlock had fully understood what Moriarty's game had been all about.

'He's been sewing doubt into people's minds for the last twenty four hours,' he explained to John. 'There's only one thing he needs to do to complete his game and that's...'

'Sherlock?'

So that was what it was for. He wasn't just destroying Sherlock's name, he was planning to...

'There's something I need to do.'

'Can I help?' John had sounded slightly anxious, but Sherlock couldn't let him come. Not where he was going.

'No. On my own.'

And then Sherlock had anticipated exactly how this game would end. Moriarty was clever, but Sherlock wouldn't let him win. He just needed a little help along the way. And he knew just where to get it.

'You're wrong you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you.'

Molly didn't see exactly where Sherlock was going with this. He needed to tell her, lay it out for her, explain exactly what was going on and what was going to happen.

'But you were right. I'm not okay.'

'Tell me what's wrong.' Molly really cared, didn't she?

'Molly, I think I'm going to die.' Sherlock said simply.

'What do you need?' She really did care about Sherlock.

'If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?' he asked her. Molly was smart, she would understand what he meant later. Right now, he needed to enlist her help.

'What do you need?' Molly repeated.

'You.'

Sherlock had everything in place. Now all he had to do was get Moriarty to come out. That was easily arranged with a simple text. Sherlock almost smiled as he sent a parody of Moriarty's text to him from over two months ago. The same words that had started this little game, he was now using to end it.

_Come and play. Bart's Hospital rooftop. SH_

And then came his reply, and the final problem that both Sherlock and Jim had been waiting for began.

_I'm waiting... JM_

Sherlock had anticipated this entire encounter in his mind. He knew he had to let Moriarty think that he had won. He had to pretend that he hadn't figured it out. He couldn't let Moriarty know that he knew the key code was a fake.

'Yes, but now that it's up here, I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty.'

Sherlock wanted to laugh as Moriarty groaned and sighed.

'No, no, no, no, no. This is too easy, this is too easy. There is no key, doofus.'  
But he stood there, feigning confusion, because the game wasn't quite over yet. No, Moriarty was just getting to that.

'Nice way to do it.'

Again, Sherlock pretended to be puzzled.

'Do it? Do what?' A brief pause. Then, 'Yes, of course. My suicide.'

And Sherlock had also anticipated Moriarty's threat. After all, what villain doesn't blackmail their nemesis when they are trying to convince them to die?

Okay, let me give you an extra little incentive. Your friends will die if you don't.'

And as Sherlock stood on the roof looking down, the final part of his plan fell into place. John got out of the taxi and Sherlock made the call that he had knew would come.

'Hello?'

'John.'

'Hey, Sherlock, you okay?'

'Turn around and walk back the way you came.'

Sherlock needed John to be exactly in the right spot. He needed to see Sherlock.

'I'm coming in.'

'Just do as I ask. Please.'

'Where?'

'Stop there.'

'Sherlock?'

'Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop.'

'Oh God.'

John's reaction was exactly as Sherlock had thought it would be. Now Sherlock only had to pull off his part.

'I - I can't come down so we - we'll just have to do it like this.'

'What's going on?'

'An apology. It's all true.'

'What?'

'Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.'

'Why are you saying this?'

Because I need you to believe this. For now, at least.

'I'm a fake.'

'Sherlock -'

'The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.'

John, you have to tell everyone. You have to believe it for Moriarty's men. They have to think that I lost or they'll come after us.

'Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met, the first time we met you knew all about my sister, right?'

'Nobody could be that clever.'

'You could.'

Sherlock laughed scornfully.

'I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick.'

'No. All right, stop it now.'

Then John moved and Sherlock panicked a little. This had to go perfectly and John had to stay where he was. It was like a magic trick. You can't let the audience get too close, or it ruins the illusion.

'No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move.'

'All right.'

'Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please will you do this for me?'

'Do what?'

Sherlock's voice was shaky and his eyes were bleared with tears. Hopefully, John believed that he was sincerely terrified. Because John was clever. If Sherlock didn't sound like he was going to die, then John might not believe that he was dead. And he had to.

'This phone call. It's...emm...it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?'

'Leave a note when?'

'Goodbye, John.'

It was time. Everything had fallen into place. Now there was only one thing left to do.

'No. Don't.'

Sherlock dropped his phone and looked down on to the street, exactly how he had pictured it.

'Sherlock!' he heard John's desperate plea from the street and he knew that he had succeeded.

And then Sherlock spread his arms and fell, just as he had anticipated.


	4. Armour

4: Armour

Fifteen year old Molly Hooper sat at her lunch table, blatantly ignoring her friends' babbling, staring across the room at Sherlock Holmes. He was seventeen, two school years ahead of her, but that didn't matter. Molly had a crush.

He was sitting alone, reading a book. He used to sit with John Watson, but John had left the school three years ago and Sherlock had never shown any interest in making new friends. So he sat alone.

His ebony curls caught the sunlight and Molly found herself wishing that she could run her hands through them. She watched his blue eyes dance across the page of his book. She adored that half smile that split his face and crinkled his nose. When he lifted his phone from his pocket and laughed gently at a text, probably from John, Molly's resolve melted.

'I'm going to see Sherlock,' she mumbled to her friends and pushed her chair back, scraping the floor as she did. Molly sauntered across the cafeteria towards him.

Sherlock did not look up as she reached his table. Molly gently cleared her throat and asked timidly, 'Do you mind if I sit here?'

Sherlock glanced up at her and his brow furrowed. His mouth scrunched into a small frown and his eyes bore into her. Molly felt embarrassed and exposed. She could feel herself blushing.

'Stop it,' she scolded herself. 'It's not as if he can read your mind.'

Although those eyes did seem very penetrating.

Sherlock seemed to shake off whatever thought he had been having. 'Go ahead,' he said, still a little confusion lingering in his tone. Most people seemed happy enough to leave him alone. He wasn't used to company arriving and asking to sit with him.

'It's Sherlock, right?' Molly asked nervously, pretending that she didn't know his name. She hoped the bluff wasn't an obvious cover up of her crush. She could feel her cheeks flushing again as she wondered just how obvious she was.

'Yeah,' Sherlock replied slowly, still looking at her strangely. 'And you are?'

'Molly. Molly Hooper. I'm a fourth year,' she grinned stupidly.

'Nice to meet you, Molly Hooper,' Sherlock smiled politely and returned his attention to his book.

Molly melted inside when he said her name. His deep voice was just so - She sighed happily, not finishing her sentence. She couldn't find the right word to do his voice justice. It was like satin.

'You're sixth year, right?' Molly enquired, taking his attention away from the book.

'Yes,' Sherlock said shortly.

Molly bit her lip and fell silent for a few seconds.

'Cool,' she said.

'I don't see how but okay,' Sherlock replied in a perplexed tone, his brow furrowing slightly again.

'So, how's school?' she asked after a few moments silence.

'Fine,' Sherlock replied bluntly.

'Okay, good...' Molly trailed off.

'Do you want something?' Sherlock asked flatly, staring through narrowed eyes at the young girl sitting opposite him.

'No, I was just...I mean...,' Molly floundered under the intense gaze from his pale eyes.

'I was just wondering...if you...'

'Would like to go for coffee sometime,' she finished in her head.

But Molly panicked and settled for asking, 'Could help me with my homework?'

'Oh,' Sherlock sighed. 'Sure. Meet me in the library after school.'

'Okay, thanks,' Molly stood up awkwardly, almost tripping over the chair leg.

'See you, Sherlock,' she turned back and waved.

'Goodbye Miss Hooper.'

Molly could hardly contain her excitement. Meeting Sherlock after school; it was practically a date. Sort of.

And Molly knew that it was the perfect excuse to talk to him.

'Spending time alone with Sherlock, I'll break down his armour one way or another. I'll make him notice me.'

And with that vow in mind, she returned to her friends, still beaming from ear to ear.


	5. Ash

5: Ash

John smelt the tobacco as soon as he opened the door to his college room. He sighed and closed the door behind him in exasperation.

'Sherlock,' he called to his room mate. 'How many times do I have to tell you? Uni rules; you can't smoke inside.'

'Not smoking,' the reply came from the desk at the other side of the room.

'I can smell it from here,' John reasoned, walking towards Sherlock whose back was still turned to John.

'I'm not smoking,' Sherlock returned in a nettled tone. 'Just because you can smell tobacco doesn't mean I am.'

'Really?' John asked, folding his arms. He didn't believe Sherlock for a second. 'Then what are you doing burning tobacco?'

'Ash, John,' Sherlock stated simply.

'I know you think that explains it, but could you break it down for those of us who can't read your mind?' John asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Sherlock sighed and turned sideways in his chair to face his roommate.

'Ash. I am burning different types of tobacco and recording differences between their ashes for identification. Do you see?' Sherlock asked bluntly, clearly irritated at having to explain the train of thought to John.

'Okay,' John said slowly, furrowing his eyebrows and shifting his stance. 'Why?' he asked confusedly, looking to Sherlock for an answer. He clearly could not find Sherlock's logic behind this experiment.

Sherlock paused and brought his hands up to his mouth, joining them together on his lips in a praying gesture.

'Because,' he replied in an uninterested voice, 'it could be useful.'

'For what?' John chuckled amusedly.

Sherlock's head snapped around and he glared at John, his nose crinkling in annoyance. The smile wiped off John's face, but he continued to stare at Sherlock, refusing to back down.

'Well?' he asked, shrugging his shoulders. Living with Sherlock meant that he was growing more and more used to moments like this, and he knew exactly how to deal with them now.

'Imagine it, John,' Sherlock started, his eyes beginning to gleam as he spoke. 'Any ash left at a crime scene could be immediately identified. Not only do you know that the criminal smokes, but you know what he smokes, allowing you to narrow down the field of suspects almost immediately. Even amongst the ones who do all smoke, and that could still be any number, you can identify who smokes the same kind of tobacco as the ash you found. It makes crime-solving even simpler again.'

Sherlock was smiling, pleased with himself, and his eyes glinted excitedly.

John decided to ignore the last comment.

'So you're going to sit here all day and make a list of the differences of tobacco ash to make crime-solving easier? You're not even a detective,' John reminded him.

'I have helped the police before,' Sherlock retorted hotly.

'One case,' John replied coolly.

'That doesn't matter. The police are out of their depth. Half of those idiots don't have the first idea about deduction,' Sherlock growled. 'They need me, John.'

'And you're going to teach them, are you?' John laughed incredulously.

'Exactly. I'm putting this on the website when it's done. Someone needs to help them.'

'Website?' John exclaimed.

'The Science of Deduction,' Sherlock smiled proudly.

John rolled his eyes derisively and Sherlock frowned at him again.

'So you're saying that you can deduce things and you're going to teach the world how.'

'I'm not teaching them, John. I'm doing it for them. Odds are, they won't understand it anyway,' Sherlock shrugged.

'Sherlock, you don't have any training or experience,' John reasoned.

'I don't need it to know that you were just with a girl who has short, blonde hair. New girlfriend already? That was quick. I can tell you that you met in her room and that you kissed, but you didn't make it any further than that. You're also planning to take her for dinner tonight, but you're worried about that essay you still have to finish,' Sherlock deduced smugly.

'How the hell?' John trailed off in amazement.

'I told you,' Sherlock smiled and turned back to his experiment.

'Number 137, Trichinopoly: dark in colour, flakey, very distinctive smell.' Sherlock typed on to a small, cherry red laptop.

'Is that my laptop?' John challenged.

'You don't mind, do you? Mine was over there,' Sherlock motioned over his shoulder to his bed, never looking up from the ash.

'It's password protected,' John blurted in shock.

'In a manner of speaking,' Sherlock told him. John could hear the smile on his voice.

'Fine, just put it back when you're done,' John sighed, grabbing his coat and wallet and heading out the door to meet his date.

When John returned to the flat, he found Sherlock poring over a file on his bed.

'Finished your monograph on tobacco ash then?' John asked good-naturedly.

'Hmm? Yes, all 243 are listed and compared, and look, it is already being put to use,' Sherlock smiled arrogantly.

'What?'

'Lestrade gave me another case to take a look at, and there was tobacco ash at the scene. It makes it fairly obvious who the killer is,' Sherlock said off-handidly.

He shot John a cocky look and John sighed, dropping his coat on his bed.

'Tobacco ash?' he mused. 'Who knew?'


	6. Band

6: Band

Sixteen year old John Watson was lying in his back garden with his eleven year old best friend, Sherlock Holmes. John had been complaining about learning the periodic table for his chemistry test, but Sherlock couldn't see the problem.

'It's simple, John. You only have to know the first twenty elements. I could name them right now,' Sherlock boasted, lying on his back, staring up at the pale blue sky.

John rolled on to his stomach to face Sherlock.

'You're on. Name them,' John challenged his friend, smiling assuredly. He could hardly remember the first ten, and he was sure Sherlock wouldn't know them. They hadn't been on his syllabus yet.

Sherlock half smiled confidently at John and began reciting.

'Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, fluorine, neon -'

'All right, all right Einstein,' John interrupted impatiently.

'I only got to ten,' Sherlock protested. 'I have another ten to go.'

'You've already proved that you know more of it than I do,' John sighed. The kid knew more than he did. Maybe he should get Sherlock to take the test for him.

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest and huffed silently. He hated being cut off mid-flow, especially when someone else had actually asked for the information he was giving them.

John realised his mistake a moment too late as he took in the brooding form of his best friend lying beside him. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

'I should have known better,' he thought to himself. 'Always let him finish.'

'Sorry, Sherlock,' John muttered, poking Sherlock in his side. Luckily, having been his best friend for the last four years, John knew exactly how to deal with Sherlock.

Sherlock squirmed and scowled at John, doing his best to remain angry.  
'Sherlock, I said I'm sorry,' John repeated, an evil grin spreading across his face as he poked his friend again.

Sherlock squirmed and smiled against his will as John continued to poke him.

'Come on, Sherlock, say something,' John teased, moving his hand to tickle Sherlock's side. Sherlock giggled and rolled away from John on to his stomach.

'Stop that,' he snapped, glaring at John.

'Not until you forgive me,' John smiled, grabbing Sherlock's ankle and pulling himself forward to straddle Sherlock. He tickled Sherlock mercilessly while Sherlock thrashed around giggling until his face was red and his breathy protests dissolved into helpless giggles. John relented enough to allow Sherlock to speak and asked 'Am I forgiven?'

'Fine,' Sherlock laughed. 'Now get off,' he demanded, pushing John's chest with little effect. The older boy smiled and climbed off Sherlock, choosing to lie beside him again on the grass.

The pair lay there silently, staring at the sky while Sherlock got his breath back.

The serenity of the moment was ruined as Sherlock groaned and clutched his stomach. John looked over at his friend concernedly.

'Are you okay?' he asked, watching Sherlock carefully.

'Yeah,' Sherlock nodded, taking a deep breath. 'That was strange, but I'll be okay.'

Thirty seconds later, Sherlock's face contorted in pain and he clutched his stomach, moaning again.

'You are not okay, Sherlock,' John said seriously.

'I'm fine,' Sherlock said off-handidly. 'It's just -' but he was cut off by another stabbing pain in his stomach.

'That's it, I'm taking you inside,' John decided, pulling himself to his feet. He helped Sherlock up and supported him as they walked inside John's house.  
He sat Sherlock down in a chair at the kitchen table and got him a glass of water.

'Drink this,' John told him and watched as Sherlock drained the glass.

'Do you want me to call Mycroft to come and collect you?' John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grunted disgustedly.

'I know, I know, but no one is here to take you home,' John reasoned.

'I'll walk. It's just down the road,' Sherlock argued.

'You're in no condition to walk home, Sherlock,' John pointed out and Sherlock scowled at him.

'You are not calling Mycroft,' he spat viciously.

'Okay, compromise,' John conceded. 'I will walk you home.'

Sherlock looked at him uncertainly, but agreed quickly when John reached for the phone.

'We had better go now,' John said, helping Sherlock to his feet.

Sherlock had only walked a few steps when his face screwed up in agony.

'I'm still walking,' he said weakly as John paused and looked back to the phone.

'Fine, okay,' John gave up and concentrated on supporting Sherlock. It was hard to be a human crutch for someone who could only just reach your shoulders. Sherlock was pretty small for his age, making this set up even more awkward, but slowly, they made it down the road to Sherlock's house, stopping a few times as pain stabbed Sherlock's stomach.

As they entered Sherlock's house, John called out for the eldest Holmes.

'Mycroft. Mycroft, it's John. I've brought Sherlock home. He's not feeling too well.'

Sherlock began to argue, but his case was weak. He was paler than usual, his forehead was covered in a sheen of sweat and he was short of breath.

Another pain seared through his abdomen and he doubled over.

John sat him down on a chair and called out for Mycroft again.

'Mycroft!'

Mycroft appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking sombre as ever.

'What is it, Sherlock?' he asked his little brother, who was bent over in the chair.

'Nothing,' he grimaced, straightening himself up.

'He keeps getting stomach pains and I think he might be developing a fever,' John told Mycroft after shooting Sherlock an unimpressed look.

'He does feel very warm,' Mycroft agreed placing a hand on Sherlock's sweaty forehead. He reached up into a cupboard above them and lifted down a thermometer. He gave it to Sherlock, who reluctantly placed it under his tongue.

'38.6C,' Mycroft read. 'He is developing a fever,' he said to John.

'Sherlock, I'm going to have to take you to the hospital,' he informed him simply.

That earned Mycroft a scowl from his younger brother.

'No.'

'Yes.'

'No.'

'Sherlock.'

'No, Mycroft. You know I hate them. They reek of disinfectant, there are far too many people, most of whom I have to communicate with and they are some of the most tedious places. They won't allow you to do anything,' Sherlock whined, still holding his stomach.

'Sorry, little brother but I have to take you,' Mycroft said unsympathetically.

Sherlock glared at him.

'You've become even worse since you turned eighteen,' he sneered.

'You still have to go.'

Sherlock growled angrily and turned away from his brother and John.

'I'll go with you if you want,' John offered. 'It might make it less boring,' he added as Sherlock glanced at him uncertainly.

'Okay,' he agreed. 'Mycroft, John is coming too.'

They bundled Sherlock into the back seat of the car and John climbed in beside him.

About half way to the hospital, Sherlock demanded that Mycroft stopped the car. He clambered out and vomited. When he got back into the car, he was sweaty and shaky and John felt awful for him.

'Poor kid,' he thought to himself, knowing that showing his sympathy to Sherlock would probably just irritate him. Better not to say anything.

By the time they had arrived at the hospital and had eventually been seen to by a doctor, Sherlock's fever had risen to 39.8C and he was very weak.

He was given a bed and was diagnosed with appendicitis. The nurse told Mycroft that there was nothing they could do that night. They would have to wait until morning to perform an appendectomy.

'Can you at least give him something for the pain?' John interrupted as Sherlock grimaced again. John was not really supposed to be listening, but he couldn't watch Sherlock in any more pain.

'He's very protective of his little brother,' Mycroft smiled politely at the nurse.

John's brow furrowed in confusion and he opened his mouth to correct Mycroft, but Sherlock tapped his arm and whispered, 'Only family is allowed in at this stage. Mycroft has to pretend that you are also our brother for you to be allowed to stay.'

John smiled in understanding and gives a tiny nod to Sherlock.

Two days later, John was finally allowed to see Sherlock again. He had the appendectomy the previous day, and he should be allowed out of hospital the next day, as long as there were no complications.

When he walked in, the eleven year old was staring blankly at the ceiling, ignoring his older brother completely. Mycroft noticed John and stood up.

'Sherlock, someone is here to see you,' he stated before walking out of the ward to leave the best friends in peace.

Sherlock did not move as John sat in the chair Mycroft had just left. He did not react at all until John spoke, breaking the silence.

'Hey, Sherlock.'

Sherlock blinked and snapped his attention down from the ceiling. His eyes fell on John and he sighed in what seemed to be relief.

'John, thank God. Finally they let one interesting person in. So far my only visitors have been Mycroft, my parents, a doctor and a few nurses, and his parents,' Sherlock said, turning his attention to a little boy in the next bed.

'His parents? That bad, huh?' John laughed, knowing that Sherlock would have hated having to converse with the strangers.

'Hi sweetie, what's your name? This is our son, Billy,' Sherlock mocked in a high-pitched voice. 'Poor Billy isn't feeling too well, are you? Tell Sherlock what's wrong with you. Are you feeling poorly too, sweetie? You don't look too peachy, poor thing. Of course I'm not well,' he sneered angrily, returning to his own voice. 'Why else would I be here? People ask such stupid questions, John,' Sherlock shook his head as if he pitied humanity for having to put up with these people.

'So aside from all the people who are only trying to be nice,' John said pointedly, 'has it really been that bad?'

'This stupid wristband keeps cutting into me,' Sherlock complained, tugging it away from his left wrist. 'Why do I need it anyway?'

'Identification,' John informed him, although he was sure Sherlock already knew this and was just trying to prove a point.

'And I'll have a scar,' Sherlock added.

John rolled his eyes.

'I bet the nurses have lots of fun listening to you complain all day.'

'I save most of it for Mycroft,' Sherlock shrugged. 'I have to find some way to have fun in here.'


	7. Bail

7: Bail

Mycroft rolled his eyes as his phone rang in his pocket. He took it out and answered it. A slightly nervous sounding male spoke.

'Mycroft Holmes?'

'Speaking,' Mycroft replied importantly.

'This is London police department calling, sir. It's about your little brother, Sherlock Holmes.'

Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

'What has he done now?' Mycroft asked imperviously.

'He's been arrested for possession of class A drugs,' the man replied carefully. 'He refused to provide a name for us to call, but your name was on his file, sir.'

'I'll be there as soon as I can. Thank you,' Mycroft said coolly and hung up his phone. He picked up his coat in silence, wondering exactly when his twenty nine year old brother was going to grow up and act his age.

Mycroft shook his head at the thought. This was Sherlock, after all. He was never going to be normal.

Twenty minutes later, Mycroft was standing outside Sherlock's cell, waiting to collect his brother.

A prison guard unlocked the door and called inside to Sherlock.

'Sherlock Holmes, your bail has been paid. You're free to go.'

Listlessly, Sherlock dragged himself out of the cell, glaring at the man who was releasing him. His eyes narrowed even more as they fell on Mycroft.

'I'd rather stay in the cell,' he growled, shoving his hands deeply into his pockets, shooting daggers in his brother's direction.

One of the guards came and handed Sherlock back his phone and his coat. As soon as it was back in his possession, Sherlock pulled his coat on and turned his collar up. He checked his phone quickly before replacing it in his pocket.

'Come along, Sherlock,' Mycroft said as if he was a parent talking to a child.

Sherlock chuckled lightly, still scowling and shook his head.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft said warningly.

'I will not go with you,' Sherlock snapped harshly, pushing past his brother.

Mycroft rolled his eyes again. 'Thank you,' he said to the officers, who nodded politely in reply.

'Just doing our job,' one of them smiled.

'Now it's time to do mine,' Mycroft thought, turning and striding after Sherlock, who had already reached the doors.

'What exactly were you doing with drugs, Sherlock?' Mycroft called after his little brother. Sherlock paused, looking out into space and said nothing.

'This could take some coaxing,' Mycroft thought exasperatedly. He repeated his question emphatically.

'Sherlock, what were you doing with drugs?'

'Don't be stupid,' Sherlock barked. 'You know exactly what I was going to do.'

'Why?'

Sherlock shot his elder brother a look of disgust and tutted disappointedly.

'Why?' Mycroft repeated undeterred.

'Don't pretend you're interested, Mycroft. It's not your forte,' Sherlock replied coolly.

'Why?' Mycroft asked again pointedly.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he scowled.

'Because I am bored.'

'Bored?' Mycroft raised an eyebrow in minor surprise.

'Bored, unstimulated, my mind is tearing itself to pieces,' Sherlock raved. 'Everything is tedious, people are boring and irritating,' Sherlock pulled a disgusted face. 'I needed something to stop my mind from rotting, becoming placid like all theirs. I needed stimulation and that is where I could get it,' Sherlock explained angrily, still scowling.

'You would get addicted. They would rot your mind too, Mycroft retorted.

'I'm not an idiot, Mycroft,' Sherlock snapped hotly. 'I was just taking a little to stimulate my brain, not hallucinogenics or any of the others that ordinary people use to feel good. I was not going to get addicted.'

'You can't know that, Sherlock,' Mycroft told him angrily.

Sherlock chuckled darkly and shook his head.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft warned.

'Just leave me alone,' Sherlock span around and snarled at his brother venomously.

'Sherlock Holmes, you cannot start taking drugs. They will rot your mind and you will get addicted. Now, don't be an idiot,' Mycroft snarled through gritted teeth. Sometimes, this was the only way to get Sherlock to pay attention.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and looked up and down Mycroft with a blank expression.

'Now,' Mycroft said, calming his tone and straightening out his jacket, 'Why don't you come with me and we can get lunch?'

'I'm not hungry,' Sherlock said bluntly.

'You have to eat, Sherlock,' Mycroft reminded him exasperatedly.

'How is that diet going, brother?' Sherlock asked, a smug smirk spreading across his face.

'Fine, thank you,' Mycroft replied in a strained voice. 'Are you coming or not?'

'Why would I have lunch if I'm not hungry?' Sherlock asked him, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

Before Mycroft could reply, Sherlock's phone beeped in his pocket.

He removed it and a smile spread across his face as he read the text.

'It's Lestrade,' he told Mycroft. 'He has a case for me. Looks like I won't need your stimulating conversation after all,' Sherlock sneered sarcastically. 'Enjoy lunch, Mycroft,' he smirked and walked off, hailing a taxi.

Mycroft shook his head as he watched his little brother leave. Once he was out of sight, Mycroft got into his own car, knowing that this wouldn't be the last time this happened.


	8. Bargain

8: Bargain

John sometimes found himself wondering exactly how Sherlock had become a consulting detective. He supposed he didn't know the answer because he never asked. He was usually too busy just being amazed at what Sherlock did and if he was honest, he couldn't see Sherlock ever doing anything else, so he never questioned when Sherlock had started. He just imagined that Sherlock had always been solving cases and criticising the police force. That changed however during the case that John had dubbed 'The Great Game' - Sherlock's first real confrontation with Jim Moriarty.

Moriarty had sent Sherlock a pair of trainers. While Sherlock was examining them he had explained to John that they belonged to a young boy, Carl Powers. He told John that was where he started. He hadn't said much else about it at the time, but later after the case on a particularly quiet evening in Baker Street, the thought popped back into John's mind and he asked Sherlock about it again.

'So you said Carl Powers was where you started?' John asked the figure draped over the sofa. Sherlock was staring listlessly at the ceiling, his mop of black curls surrounding his head like a fluffy halo.

'Yes,' Sherlock confirmed, never moving to look at John as he spoke.

'So he was your first real case?' John pressed, wanting to hear the story but knowing that he would have to drag every detail out of his flatmate.

'No, not exactly,' Sherlock deliberated. 'It was the case that made me realise that the police were totally incompetent and out of their depth.'

'So he wasn't your first case then?' John asked, a little puzzled.

'Technically, I didn't actually work the case at the time. I noticed it in the newspaper and was bothered by the fact that his shoes were missing,' Sherlock verified.

'Yeah, you said that in the cab,' John said thoughtfully.

'But no one would listen to a nineteen year old,' Sherlock shrugged. 'They wrote the case off as accidental death, but that was the case that made me realise that the police needed help.'

'So Carl was your inspiration then?' John asked.

Sherlock shrugged complacently.

'Even after it was closed, I tried to convince the police to look for his shoes, but they wouldn't listen. It was really the next case that was my beginning as a consulting detective,' he smiled.

'What was your first case then?' John asked. He was curious to know now that they had begun this conversation.

'Mark Rose. The police thought it was the brother, but it was obvious that he was innocent,' Sherlock rolled his eyes disdainfully.

'And you told them that, did you?' John asked, smiling as he imagined a nineteen year old Sherlock arrogantly telling the police that they were wrong.

'Of course but they refused to believe me again,' Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. 'Except for one. Detective Inspector Morris. I'm still not quite sure if he was just taking pity on me or if he really believed me, but he said he would make a bargain with me. He told me to show him some proof of my theory and he would take it to the investigation for me.'

'And you had evidence?' John asked, not really surprised at all.

'He got me into the morgue and I proved it to him. The police thought that the bruises that had formed on the body were caused by the brother because he fought with Mark a few hours before he died. But I was able to prove that the bruises had only been inflicted about twenty minutes before his death and the brother had a solid alibi for that time. I showed Morris that it was glaringly obvious that it was the cousin instead. They had been fighting over money,' Sherlock sighed, bored by the trivialness of the argument.

'And Morris kept his side of the bargain and they arrested the cousin. Morris had been so impressed that he called me in for the next case and I never left afterwards. It was far more interesting than anything I had been doing previously and there was no shortage of cases that the police needed assistance in,' Sherlock said unimpressed.

'And that was it?' John asked incredulously. 'They just let a nineteen year old into all their cases? No matter how brilliant you were, they must have had some reservations at least,' he reasoned.

'Morris kept me secret for a while,' Sherlock agreed. 'He brought me copies of case files to my house and I gave him evidence and theories, or told him what to look for or what I needed to see. Then he brought the evidence to the police, but each time he told them it was me that was solving the case until one day he told me to just turn up at the crime scene.'

'And how did that work out?' John asked, laughing slightly at the thought of Sherlock materialising one day.

A smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

'The police weren't too happy with Morris, but he made them show me the body anyway. They were much more agreeable after I told them what I could deduce about the victim,' he chuckled smugly.

John giggled. 'So you're a detective - consulting detective,' he corrected himself, 'because one man took pity on you?'

Sherlock bristled a little in his seat. 'I'd like to think my deductions were the main reason,' he retorted, nettled.

'Well yeah,' John agreed quickly. Sherlock was already bored, he didn't want to add irritated to that list. Bored alone was dangerous enough.

'So Carl Powers and a bargain was all it took?' John smiled thoughtfully.

Sherlock grinned. 'And a lot of boredom on my part, but essentially yes, that was what it took to make the world's only consulting detective.'


	9. Beauty

9: Beauty

Sherlock sank further down into his chair, toying with his violin bow. He held the violin out over the arm of his chair; it hovered a few inches above the wooden floor. He sighed exasperatedly - he was bored. Extremely bored. John had gone out to a pub with some of his friends from his old rugby club, leaving Sherlock home alone with no case and nothing to do.

It was getting late, by now it was early morning but he wasn't ready to sleep. Even with no case to occupy his mind, Sherlock's mind was still wired. He wouldn't sleep even if he tried, so why waste time trying?

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he reached a hand in to pull it out. It was a text from John, which was unexpected.

_Sherlock, come down here. We need you for something._

Sherlock looked up into the distance, his brows knotting together. What could John need him for in a pub?

_Are you trying to get me out of the house? _

Sherlock typed back quickly and set the phone down on the arm of his chair, waiting for the reply.

_Just get down here. _

John sent back a few minutes later.

Sherlock stared at his phone, wondering whether he should go or not. He didn't want to join John with his rugby friends, but then again, he had nothing better to do. He decided to go, texted a brief answer, flipped his phone and replaced it in his pocket. He jumped out of his chair and pulled his coat on, sweeping out of the door.

In the street below, he hailed a taxi and gave the address of the pub to the driver. He stared out of the window, watching the city pass by, lit only by the orange glow of the street lamps. He could see people stumbling drunkenly out of clubs and bars, clutching on to each other for support, women carrying their high heels to rest their tired feet, a few people lying against a wall, fighting the urge to vomit.

As the taxi pulled up in front of the pub, Sherlock noticed that John was standing outside, leaning against the wall, his eyes searching the streets. He paid the driver and climbed out, heading towards John.

'Sherlock!' John yelled drunkenly, staggering away from the wall.

'You're drunk, John,' Sherlock stated, his eyes narrowing in accusation.

'Maybe a little,' he slurred, smiling and holding his finger and thumb up with a small gap between them to illustrate how drunk he was.

'Come on, I was waiting to take you in.'

'I'm much more capable of walking into the bar unaided than you are at the moment, John.'

'S'pose,' John sniffed. 'Oh, hold on,' he said, stopping in his tracks.

'What?' Sherlock asked, turning back to face John. He could smell the alcohol on his breath from here and he wrinkled his nose at the smell.

'Justin wants to know what your hair feels like. He said it looked fluffy in the newspaper,' John explained.

'You brought me all the way down here for that?' Sherlock growled, fixing a sour look at John.

'We couldn't answer it without you,' John shrugged.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. 'I'm going home,' Sherlock said, turning to walk back to the road to hail another taxi.

'No, wait, they're coming out now instead. It'll only take a second,' John protested, grabbing Sherlock's wrist.

'John, let go!' Sherlock snarled, scowling as a group of men each as drunk as John, some possibly worse, stumbled out, shouting and laughing and made their way towards them.

'Let go!' Sherlock growled, grabbing John's wrist and wrenching his hand from his own thin wrist.

'Hey, get off John!' one of the men with light blonde hair ordered, putting a hand on Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed the man's hand off his chest, seemingly aggravating the men.

The blonde man punched Sherlock in the face before John could stop him.

'Woah, hey guys! Stop! That's Sherlock! He wasn't gonna hurt me!' John yelled, pushing his way in between the man and Sherlock.

'Oh shit. Sorry mate,' the blonde man slurred, holding out a hand in apology. Sherlock glared at him furiously.

'Maybe we should go home, Sherlock,' John agreed. 'See you later guys.'

The next day, Sherlock woke up with a dark circle under his left eye. John winced as he walked into their living room and apologised again.

'Listen, I'm sorry about Gary. He was just looking out for me.'

'No need to apologise, John. Hurry up; Lestrade texted. There's a body in Juniper Street he wants me to take a look at.'

They rode in silence to the crime scene and Sherlock led the way inside when they arrived.

Lestrade was in the room with the body and Anderson was already bent over the dead man, examining him.

They both looked up as Sherlock entered the room. Lestrade whistled lowly.

'That's a beauty, Sherlock.'

Anderson laughed once; a cold, cruel sneer.

'Did John finally have enough of you? I would have done it much sooner,' he added.

'John did not do it and I would love to see you try,' Sherlock replied icily, glaring at Anderson.

'One of my mates was a bit drunk and hit him. It wasn't Sherlock's fault,' John explained sheepishly as he walked in.

'That's hard to believe,' Anderson muttered under his breath.

Sherlock clenched his jaw silently.

'Are we just going to stand around all day and talk about my eye or would you like me to solve this murder for you?' he asked angrily.

Lestrade held his hands up defensively. 'Be my guest.'


	10. Beckon

10: Beckon

At the age of twenty-one, John was in his fourth year at university and he had settled in well in his time there. He never really suffered from homesickness - he missed it now and again but on the whole, he rarely stopped to think about it in his hectic student life. The thing he missed most when he did pause to reflect on the matter was his best friend, Sherlock. Most people seemed to find it strange that John's best friend was five years younger than him, but anyone who knew the sixteen year old found it even more puzzling that he had a best friend - the age difference hardly registered on them.

So John was pleasantly surprised one afternoon when his phone buzzed on the table beside him. He dropped his pen happily and stretched, glad for any excuse to interrupt the long passage he had been reading about glaucoma. He had read the last sentence three times and had been paying so little attention to the words that he still didn't know what the sentence said. He opened the message and smiled as the familiar wave of nostalgia washed over him. It read:

'_John, can I come over tonight? Mycroft is being even more infuriatingly annoying than usual and if I don't get out of here soon, I may have a new cadaver for you to practise on. SH.'_

John replied quickly:

'_Of course you can, Sherlock. Come as soon as you can - I don't want to be practising on Mycroft, thanks. I've already got my cadaver. JW.'_

He placed the phone down again and looked back to the passage.

"No," he shook his head, snapped the textbook shut and got up from the table, tucking the book safely under his arm.

About half an hour later, there was a knock at John's door. He opened it to find a surly Sherlock glowering at the door. John smiled and took a step aside to let Sherlock in.

"Mycroft drove you over then?" John asked. Sherlock growled.

"Twenty eight minutes trapped in a small, metal container with him," he sighed, flopping exasperatedly onto the red leather sofa.

"That bad, huh?"

"Do you have to ask?" Sherlock replied dryly, raising an eyebrow questioningly with a minuscule shrug of his shoulders.

"No, I don't," John smiled cheerily, sitting down on the sofa beside Sherlock. "So how's school, kid?"

"Awful."

'_It was amazing how much feeling Sherlock could put behind two syllables,' _John thought as Sherlock rolled his eyes. '_He'd be a fantastic actor if he ever felt so inclined.'_

John had been about to ask was there a particular reason for the awfulness of school or was it still the usual, 'It's boring and filled with idiotic people that I'm forced to socialise with,' but he didn't get the chance. His front door swung open and his flatmate waltzed in.

"Hey, John, I got us some - Sherlock!" Michael exclaimed, pointing to the boy on the sofa, his arms ladened with plastic bags from the local shop. "You brought him for the party. Good man," he said to John, dropping the bags in the kitchen.

Sherlock shot John an inquisitive look. '_Party?_' it said._ 'You didn't say there was a party.'_

John replied with a tiny shrug that said '_This is news to me too.'_

"What party, Mike?" John asked.

"Ours," he replied. "We're having people over tonight."

"Since when?" John asked confusedly. He hadn't been told this.

"I'd say since about forty minutes ago," Sherlock answered casually. He looked to Michael. "Fifteen minutes to the shop, about ten to buy all that," he gestured to the bags, "and fifteen back again?"

"Kid got it," he smiled coyly.

"Mike, we can't have a party. I've got Sherlock here."

"So?"

"He can't drink," John said, trying to at least appear responsible.

"Oh come on. He's what? Seventeen?" Michael blew it off.

"Sixteen," Sherlock corrected.

Michael looked him over. "Jeez, you're tall for sixteen," he noticed.

"You're small for twenty-one," Sherlock countered, almost childishly.

"See? He'll be fine," he told John, taking no offence at Sherlock's comment. "Lighten up, John, you aren't his mum."

"Escaping Mycroft to end up at a uni party," Sherlock said. He leaned back in the chair and sighed heavily. "Great," his voice dripped with sarcasm.

'_Yeah, definitely an actor,'_ John thought to himself.

Mike said it would only be a small party; a few people, a few drinks, a little music. Of course, John knew what that meant but every argument he offered was flapped away by Michael. Then the first guests arrived and John couldn't really turn them away.

And they kept arriving and arriving until he was sure that half of the university had crammed themselves into their cramped flat.

Sherlock had moved to a wooden chair in the corner to avoid the worst of the drunken clamour while John was passed between all the groups of people.

"Hey, John," some girls from his year called, waving him over. He waved and pushed his way over to them.

"Who's the kid in the corner?" the blonde one, Megan, asked before John had even said hello. He looked over to where Sherlock sat, resting his head on his hand, leaning an elbow on the table - the picture of boredom.

"That's Sherlock," John told them.

"Who's he here with?" Alex asked him, watching Sherlock sympathetically.

"He came to visit me. He's my best friend," John explained fondly.

"Poor kid's probably shy around all these Uni students," Megan thought aloud.

John laughed. "Sherlock Holmes is definitely not shy," he said emphatically.

"Call him over then!" Tasha ordered, peering past John to the teenager.

John turned and caught Sherlock's attention, beckoning him over to the group. He watched John and the girls apprehensively for a moment and then dragged himself from the chair and trudged towards them with great effort, like his limbs were made from stone and were weighing him down.

John introduced them all.

"Sherlock, this is Megan, Alex and Tasha," he pointed to each girl as he said her name. "Girls, this is Sherlock."

"Hi," they chorused, trying to ease Sherlock.

"Hello," he smiled uneasily back.

"Aww, John, he is so cute!" Alex cooed. "I just want to fluff his curls," she said, reaching out a hand and ruffling Sherlock's hair. He stiffened and moved his head subtly away, rearranging his scowl into a strained smile as John poked him in the back.

"Alex, you're making him uncomfortable," Tasha scolded, nudging her friend with her elbow.

"I had to do it!" she protested but turned and smiled apologetically at Sherlock. "Sorry."

He nodded in acknowledgment of her apology but said nothing.

"So, Sherlie, what age are you?" Megan asked, nonchalantly leaning back into the sofa.

"Sherlock," he corrected and John interrupted in case he said anything less pleasant.

"He's sixteen," he interjected quickly.

"Sixteen and doesn't like Sherlie. Got it. I assume 'Sher' and 'Lock' are off the table too?" she inquired playfully.

"If you wouldn't mind," he half smiled politely in return with a dry undertone.

"He's so polite. He's a little gentleman," Alex crowed, looking as if she might explode in her excitement.

"Do you have a girlfriend, Sherlock?" Tasha asked.

"Not really my area."

"Have you ever kissed someone?"

"Again, not really my area," Sherlock said with a slight grimace.

"He really is sweet sixteen and never been kissed!" Alex squealed in delight. "This is too cute!"

"Sounds like Alex'll fix that soon enough," Megan joked.

"Yeah, go on, Alex, give him a kiss already," Tasha joined in.

"I don't think that's a great idea," John cut in but Alex was already reaching her arms out towards Sherlock.

"Come here, sweetie. Just a little kiss."

Sherlock took a small step back and glanced awkwardly at John for help.

"Aww, it's okay. Just a little kiss. How about on the cheek?" Alex babbled, puckering her lips.

"That's okay," Sherlock said and John guided Alex back into her seat.

"See you later, guys," John said, pushing Sherlock away from the girls.

"Aww," they moaned. "Bye Sherlock," they waved and Alex winked cheekily at him.

"Sorry about that," John muttered as he steered Sherlock through the crowd.

"It still has to be better than being at home with Mycroft," he joked and John chuckled.


	11. Bend

11: Bend

John Watson considered himself a patient man. He could wait for things without getting too excited, he could keep his calm, stay cool, not get worked up over things. The only thing that seemed to irritate him from time to time was his flatmate (and those bloody chip and pin machines, but that's another story). But even at that, he stuck more than most people would. John would just ignore Sherlock or sigh, or maybe at a push, tell Sherlock off a little, but he considered himself very patient with the consulting detective. Except one day when Sherlock pushed him further than usual.

It all started with a text. Sherlock was out finding information for a case - looking up the homeless network, John assumed. He sat in the flat, typing up the notes for his latest blog entry when his phone beeped beside him. He rolled his eyes as he read the text from his flatmate.

_We're out of milk. SH_

John texted back quickly.

_You're out and I'm busy. Pick some up on your way home. JW_

Then a few seconds later:

_I'm busy. You get it. SH_

John sighed.

_Sherlock, you're already out. Just get it on your way home. I'm not going out to buy milk now. JW_

He didn't get an answer, so he assumed that Sherlock was going to buy some as he came home. It would only take two minutes for him to walk into the shop anyway.

Over two hours later, Sherlock swept back into the flat carrying a sports bag that was slung sloppily over his left shoulder. He went straight to the kitchen and dropped it on the table.

"Did you get the milk?" John asked casually, never pausing to look up as Sherlock floated past.

"No," he said.

"Why not?" John said, looking up at Sherlock in mild annoyance. It was the one thing he had asked him to do.

Sherlock shrugged. "I told you to get it. I was busy."

"So am I! You couldn't stop off and buy some on the way home?" John asked. Then he sighed because Sherlock took no notice. "Never mind, it's not that urgent anyway."

Sherlock flopped down onto the sofa, searching the Internet on his phone. John began to type again, throwing furtive glances at the bag on the kitchen table until his curiosity got the better of him.

"What's in the bag?" he asked his flatmate nonchalantly.

"A head."

"Another one?" John exclaimed.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied dryly still typing on his phone.

"Get it off the table," John ordered.

"Why?"

"It's unhygienic. We have to eat there."

"We never eat there," Sherlock reasoned.

John couldn't argue that point but he persevered anyway.

"Just get it off the table."

"It's fine. It won't do any harm," Sherlock said in a bored tone.

John sighed exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Fine, I'll move it," he said, getting up and heading towards the kitchen table. It was cluttered with books and notes, the microscope, Petri dishes, vials, beakers filled with coloured liquids and an unmarked bottle of powder, some of which was spilled across the table. Obviously another of Sherlock's experiments.

"John, don't touch anything," Sherlock called warningly after him.

The doctor ignored him and lifted the bag from the table. As he lifted it, it knocked one of the coloured beakers over and the liquid ran across the table, reacting with powder lying on it.

At the clink of the glass hitting the table, Sherlock's head snapped up from his phone and he raced to the kitchen. He grabbed John's shoulder and pulled him backwards gently, keeping his eyes trained on the reaction occurring on the table.

"I told you not to touch anything," he said. "Just stay back for a minute."

"Sherlock! What's going on?" John asked, unable to tear his gaze from the table in shock.

"Chemical reaction. You just created a moderate acidic reaction," the detective explained.

"Wait. Acid?" John exclaimed, turning to face Sherlock.

He nodded.

"Sherlock! Why did you have that out on the table?" John yelled.

"I told you not to touch it," Sherlock snapped back. "I can neutralise it anyway once it stops fizzing like that," he added, taking another beaker of liquid and pouring it over the mixture already spilled across the table.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John let out, looking at the burn marks that were left on the table. Mrs Hudson was not going to be happy.  
"I told you not to touch it," Sherlock repeated, annoyance flourishing in his tone.

"Anything that might explode or burn a hole through our table shouldn't be on it in the first place," John countered angrily.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and recited the same excuse he always gave.

"It was an experiment," he drawled again, dropping onto the sofa and shutting his eyes, placing his fingertips together under his chin as if he was praying serenely.

"Sherlock, you can't just -" John cut himself off, inhaling deeply as he felt his anger rising.

"Never mind," he shook his head, exhaling and releasing his annoyance as he did so, sitting back down at the table in the living room to finish the blog entry.

It was silent for fifteen minutes, until Sherlock silently rolled off the sofa and stalked out of the room. About seven minutes later, he came back into the room in his pyjamas and blue dressing gown.

John barely registered it, his eyes only flickering to the clock on his laptop as he saw the blue swirl swish into the room again.

It was late. One am already. John had been working longer than he had thought. He stretched in his chair, arching his back, the tiredness finally catching up with him. He stifled a yawn. He stared at the laptop, his vision suddenly blurry because of his tired eyes. It was time to hit the hay.

"Night, Sherlock," John mumbled, standing up and stretching again.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed, barely paying attention to John.

John had only got as far as the end of the hall when he heard the bang. He jumped and swore under his breath. Then he stomped back into the living room, his anger returning again.

"Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?" he shouted furiously, glaring at the consulting detective who was lounging in his armchair, pointing a gun at the wall.

"Bored," Sherlock muttered.

"No! We are not doing this again!" John yelled, holding his hand out for the gun.

Sherlock's eyes shot up to the doctor and flashed a darker shade of icy blue. He shot another bullet into the wall defiantly and then emptied the rest of the round into the plaster as if he was purposely doing it just to test John.

Then he smiled darkly and handed the gun to the blond man.

John just glared at him and took the gun with him as he went to bed.

He put the gun in his dresser and got himself ready for bed. He climbed in under the duvet and drifted off quickly - he was exhausted.

Only a few hours later - it only felt like minutes to John - he opened his eyes sleepily, thinking that he was still dreaming for a moment as his brain attempted to break through the misty haze of sleep. He could hear music drifting up from downstairs and it took him longer than usual to piece it together.

"Sherlock," John groaned, rubbing his eyes exasperatedly and rolling out of bed. He trudged downstairs, his vision still bleary as he entered the living room to find Sherlock looking out of the window, his back to John, running his bow masterfully back and forth across his violin, creating a harsh, angry melody that echoed through the flat.

John felt his anger rising again. Normally, he didn't get this annoyed over all of these things, but he was tired and Sherlock had been pushing him all day, piling up all the little annoyances.

"Sherlock, for God's sake! It's 3am!" John shouted.

Sherlock continued to play as if John had never spoken.

"Jesus, you've been driving me around the bend all bloody day! Just stop and go to bed!" he yelled and this time, Sherlock did stop, hearing a the new tone of anger in John's voice. This wasn't his usual "Sherlock, please stop," tone. No, this was real annoyance.

Without a word, Sherlock replaced the violin back in the case.

"Thank you," John muttered, heading back up to bed again. At least now he might get some sleep tonight.


	12. Bind

12: Bind

Little eight year old Sherlock was sitting in his bedroom with his back pressed against the wooden door, hugging his knees to his chest.  
Mycroft was knocking on the door from the other side, demanding entry.

"Sherlock let me in!"

"No!" Sherlock yelled, burying his head into his arms.

"Sherlock," his brother began in an exasperated tone.

"No! Go away!" came the muffled reply.

"Just tell me what happened," Mycroft said gently, softening a little.

"Just leave me alone!"

"Do you want me to ask if John can come over?" he tried, knowing that his strange younger brother had seemed to have developed a liking for the little blond boy down the road. In fact, John was the only friend Sherlock had ever had.

"I want you to leave me alone!" Sherlock snapped furiously.

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock could be very difficult when he wanted to be.

He would have to resort to drastic measures.

Mycroft groaned and walked towards the next room down the hall. Sherlock had discovered, through his usual curiosity, that there was a hole in the wall between the storage space in that room and the storage in Sherlock's own bedroom. He had used it many times, clambering between the rooms to avoid people or just to explore when he was bored. Mycroft remembered the first time Sherlock's tiny head had peeked through the storage door in the computer room, even though Mycroft had just heard him walk into his own bedroom.

Now he was going to have to sink to the undignified level of clambering through the small hole between the two rooms.

Sherlock could hear his older brother scrambling through the hole but he refused to move to try and block Mycroft's passage to his room. He stayed where he was with his head in his knees, listening but never moving a muscle as Mycroft climbed into his room.

"Sherlock," Mycroft started and paused, watching his brother. He didn't really know what to say or do and it was making him slightly uncomfortable.  
Sherlock showed no signs of responding and Mycroft rolled his eyes and exhaled silently. He bent down beside the young boy.

"What happened?" he asked the huddled figure softly.

"I told you to go away," Sherlock lifted his head and said weakly.

"Yes, but did you think I would?" Mycroft smiled lightly.

"I had hoped," Sherlock said dryly so that Mycroft wasn't entirely sure whether he was joking or not.

"What happened?" Mycroft tried again.

"Why are you asking? I'm sure you already know," Sherlock said tiredly.

"Why don't you tell me anyway?" Mycroft pressed.

Sherlock sighed and dropped his head to rest his chin on his knees. He looked away from Mycroft.

"The kids in my class called me a freak again and then one of them took my pencil case and threw it at me. Then some of the boys grabbed my jumper and pushed me to the ground and they started kicking and punching me," he told with a blank face. There was no intonation to his voice at all - it was like listening to a robot.

"Who bandaged you up?" Mycroft asked, catching a glimpse of the white bandage on Sherlock's wrist.

"The school nurse. She did an awful job," Sherlock scowled at the loose end of the bandage that was dangling out from underneath his jumper.

"Here, let me." Mycroft carefully pushed back Sherlock's sleeve and unwound the bandage. He made Sherlock twirl the wrist to test if it was broken or sprained. Sherlock scowled but complied.

"It's just a little sore, Mycroft. It's not sprained," he emphasised.

"Just wear the bandage for a day or two," Mycroft ordered, expertly binding the wrist back up again.

He led Sherlock to the bathroom and washed the cuts on his knees.

He wanted to check for bruised ribs but Sherlock refused to let him.

"Just leave it, Mycroft!" he snapped.

"I've had much worse," he added, glaring darkly.

"I know," Mycroft muttered sadly.

Sherlock sighed and glanced down to his shoes. He never cried when this happened and in his own way, besides the physical pain of it, Sherlock didn't mind and Mycroft knew it. He knew that Sherlock really didn't care about the name calling and he admired his little brother for that. It made life a little easier for him anyway.

"Do you want a biscuit?" Mycroft offered, knowing it was the kind of thing grown-ups gave to children to cheer them up, but Sherlock wasn't sad and he didn't react the way most other children would.

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm going to play violin," he said and walked back down the hall towards his room.

A few seconds later, a beautiful melody was echoing through the house and Mycroft smiled and rolled his eyes.

Sherlock Holmes was definitely not an ordinary child.


	13. Blue

13: Blue

Sherlock Holmes was only three years old when he had his first experience of detective work. Nothing like what he would go on to do in the future, but at the time, he thought it was fantastic.

The little curly haired toddler had toddled into Mycroft's room, looking for something to do. He wanted his brother to play with him - he was bored playing on his own and none of the toys were stimulating enough. The action figures were all too stiff and unrealistic, his toy ship wouldn't float in the little bucket of water, his paints were all used and the toy keyboard kept making strangled sounds as if it was dying.

"My," Sherlock called in his tiny voice. "My!"

He pushed open his brother's door and barged into his room. Mycroft was sitting at his desk, reading a book on British Parliament in the 1840s. It was quite an advanced text for a ten year old, but he was fascinated by this sort of thing and he wanted to learn as much as he could about the government.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled in a bubbly voice and bounced over to the desk.

"Not now Sherlock," Mycroft replied uninterestedly without raising his head from the book.

"I'm bored," Sherlock whined, grabbing the arm of Mycroft's chair and swinging himself.

"So entertain yourself," his brother said uncaringly. "Without breaking my chair," he added, glaring harshly at the toddler swinging on the arm.

"But everything's boring," Sherlock drawled, still swinging. "Play with me," he demanded, his baby blue eyes sparkling in excitement.

"No, Sherlock. I'm reading," Mycroft told him patronisingly, dropping his nose back into the book to illustrate his point.

"But Mycroft," Sherlock whined again, pouting and dropping his arms to his sides disappointedly.

"No."

The pout immediately changed into a dark scowl and his little blue eyes flashed icily.

"Fine," snapped Sherlock, his fists clenching defiantly at his side. "I don't need you to play with me."

Mycroft smiled wryly into the book.

"I thought you wanted me to play with you?" he asked, chuckling.

"Shut up," he sulked, petulantly stropping out of the room. He clenched his teeth angrily. He didn't need stupid Mycroft anyway. He would find something much better to do than play with his older brother.

But Sherlock soon discovered that there was nothing of interest downstairs. He faced the same dilemma he had faced before he went in search of Mycroft. He still had nothing to do, nothing to cure his boredom.

He sighed exasperatedly and dropped to the floor, splaying his arms and legs out so he looked like a starfish stuck to the wooden floor, staring blankly at the white ceiling above him.

This was how he was lying when his mother walked in. She laughed quietly to herself as she saw her younger son lying in a halo of dark curls, the very picture of boredom on the living room floor.

"What's wrong with my little Sherlie?" she asked in a sing-song voice as she walked over to the toddler.

"Bored," he moaned.

"Get up and play then," she reasoned with a smile.

"I tried but I'm still bored and Mycroft won't play with me and I don't need him anyway," Sherlock said defiantly, a scowl returning to his little face.

His mother pursed her lips thoughtfully, resting a hand on her hip and the other on her bottom lip, humming as she thought.

"I have just the thing!" she exclaimed proudly. "Come on, Sherlock," she smiled, reaching a hand out towards him.

His curiosity piqued, Sherlock scrambled up and took his mother's hand as she led him to the sofa.

"I don't want to watch tv," he whined as she told him to sit.

"You'll like this programme," she told him, smiling knowingly.

"Really?" he asked, his little eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Really," she confirmed, flicking the television on.

His mother changed the channel to one of the children's channels just as the next programme was starting. Sherlock tilted his head curiously and frowned at the screen, trying to figure out what it was.

There was a man in a green striped jumper and a blue dog jumping inside a house.

"What is this?" Sherlock asked incredulously, watching the man as he waved hello to all the children who were watching.

"This is Blue's Clues," his mother explained, smiling sweetly. "That dog is Blue and you have to help his owner, Kevin, play Blue's clues."

"But I don't know how to play," Sherlock said worriedly, staring at the screen with an anxious expression.

"You'll learn, Sherlie," she patted his shoulder reassuringly.

"Okay," he nodded unsurely, crossing his legs and leaning forward in his seat.  
His mother left him contentedly as he started shouting that the next clue was behind Kevin, on the fridge.

"It's there! It's right there!"

She chuckled to herself and slipped out to finish her work.

Later, she peeked her head back into the living room to check on Sherlock. He had been uncharacteristically quiet and that was making her just a little anxious. There was no telling what mischief he could be up to when he was left alone, especially when he was silent.

She bit back a giggle as she peered in to find Sherlock wearing a green striped jumper that was far too big for him, obviously one of his father's, rolled up so that his tiny hands could just poke out of the sleeves and his own pair of brown shorts. He also had a little notebook and a crayon just like in the show and he was walking around the living room, glancing under the sofa and behind the door and around the whole room, apparently looking for clues.

"Mummy," he beamed proudly when he saw her. "I want to be a detective!" he shouted triumphantly, grinning.

"Really?" she asked, trying to be serious, but Sherlock looked so ridiculous and adorable in the green jumper that it was hard not to laugh or scoop him up into a tight hug.

"Mmhmm," he affirmed, nodding so that his curls bounced with a life of their own. "It's easy, but I like it. It's not boring," he said importantly.

"So my Sherlie's going to be a detective then?" she smiled, playing along for her toddler's sake. Little did she know how right she was.


	14. Books

14: Books

Molly remembered her very first day working in St. Bart's hospital. She was twenty six, bright and bubbly and eager to get the job done. Everyone at the hospital was lovely to her, trying to look out for her but somehow she still ended up flustered and swamped with work before her first lunch break.

It was mid afternoon and she was rushing towards the morgue with a pile of books balanced precariously in her arms. She rounded a corner and bumped straight into someone, scattering the books all over the floor. Loose pages fluttered down gently and Molly dived to the ground to pick them up, blushing and muttering an apology to the person she had walked into.

"It's fine," the person replied and Molly stood up slowly, clutching the books to her chest. It was him. She would recognise that voice anywhere.

She lifted her eyes to look at him from under her eyelashes and smiled shyly. There he was, ten years after he had left her school and went on to university and she had assumed that she would never see him again - there was Sherlock Holmes standing in front of her again.

His hair was still jet black and was curled gently in a way that made Molly want to ruffle it. His amazing sea blue eyes dotted with flecks of ocean green were fixed on her and it made Molly's heart race and his half smile melted her heart. Ten years later and he had become even more irresistible. How on earth was that possible?

"Hi Sherlock," she murmured, trying to sound like her normal chirpy self, instead of hopelessly in love.

Confusion flashed in his eyes as she said his name and though it was momentary, it was enough for Molly to catch the slight frown and the crease of his eyebrows.

She tucked her hair behind her ear.

"I'm Molly. We went to school together. Well sort of - I was two years younger but you helped me with my homework a few times," she babbled quickly, wishing she knew when to shut up.

"Molly?" he said slowly, tasting her name as he tried to place her. "Moll- oh, Molly Hooper," he said, smiling proudly as the recognition struck him.

"That's me," she shrugged, looking to the side and smiled.

"So, emm, what are you doing here?" she asked jovially. She was trying to keep him talking. She hadn't seen him in ten years and she had forgotten just how amazing his voice was. It was deep and gravelly but at the same time soft, like satin. Molly had never been able to figure out how it was possible but Sherlock defied lots of conventions. She had learned not to question it - she revelled in it instead.

"My job," he answered simply with the ghost of a shrug and a cocky smile.

"You work here?" Molly asked excitedly, bouncing unconsciously on her toes in her eagerness. Sherlock noticed the bounce before she did and his brow furrowed confusedly. His eyes narrowed uneasily and he frowned and Molly dropped from her toes, biting her lip and gazing at the ground awkwardly.

There was an awkward silence for a few seconds as Sherlock looked away, his eyes dancing back and forth as he tried to figure out her reaction. He broke whatever train of thought he had been on with an imperceptible shake of his head and blinked, looking back to Molly. She couldn't help but notice that he looked like he had just been woken from a dream.

"Sort of," he said flatly.

"You sort of work here?" Molly repeated hesitantly, trying to puzzle out his meaning as she spoke. How could he sort of work in a morgue?

"I consult on cases so I need to be here to take a look at the bodies," he explained nonchalantly.

"Oh. So you're a pathologist?"

"Consulting detective," he told her in a dry tone, bristling a little.

'_Oops_' she thought to herself. Obviously, he didn't like having to explain his job to people.

"I've never heard of a consulting detective before. It sounds interesting," she tried, hoping that her being impressed with his job would warm him back up to her. Although warm wasn't a word that was synonymous with Sherlock Holmes.

"That's because I'm the only one in the world. I invented the job," Sherlock said self-assuredly. There was the trace of a proud smile again.

"Wow, that's...impressive," Molly smiled timorously, stealing another glance at his ocean coloured eyes from under her lashes. She reached a hand up to push her hair behind her ear, forgetting that it was in a ponytail. She chuckled once nervously as she slid her fingers over her ear, catching only a few loose hairs that had fallen out from the bobble. She could feel the heat rushing to her cheeks and prayed that the pink tint was unnoticeable.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and half smiled. He breathed out and pointed towards the morgue.

"Well, I have a body to get to," he reminded her in a tone that signalled the conversation was over. He appeared...uncomfortable.

"Oh yeah, yes, of course," Molly babbled quickly, nodding understandingly. She tried to hide her disappointment.

Sherlock smiled politely and swept past Molly, down the hall, his black coat swishing elegantly as he walked.

She turned and sighed happily as she watched him go. She wished she could talk to him just for a little longer.

"Sherlock? Would you - " she called hesitantly before her brain realised what she had done.

He span around again, his piercing eyes fixed on her. His lips were pressed together into a thin white line and he looked bored.

"Yes?" he called flatly, raising an eyebrow questioningly at Molly.

"Would you," she paused, rattling her brain for a cover. Anything would do.  
"Would you...take this to the lab for me?" she said quickly, holding a file towards him. "If you're going that way," she added, dropping her head shyly as he watched her curiously.

"Sure," he replied slowly, taking the file from her. His eyes scanned her and Molly shifted uncomfortably under his glare.

"Thanks," she muttered as he walked off again, this time with the file. "You can just dump it on the table."

"Okay," he shouted back without ever turning around to look at her again.  
Molly bit her bottom lip, grinning to herself as she watched Sherlock flounce away towards the morgue.

Working here had just gotten so much better.


	15. Boundaries

15: Boundaries

Boundaries. John didn't think that was a word that Sherlock Holmes knew the meaning of. He would endlessly find the detective leaning over his shoulder and invading his personal space or taking his laptop, or insulting his girlfriends, reading his emails, taking things from his room without asking. Sherlock just didn't know that they existed. He couldn't understand that there was an imaginary line that everyone knew you just didn't cross. Which is why  
John found it hilarious when he found himself being lectured by Sherlock on 'boundaries'.

It had all started on the Monday of that week. Sherlock had gotten a case on Saturday afternoon and John was convinced that he hadn't eaten since then. He brought a piece of dry toast and a cup of tea to Sherlock who was still working at the kitchen table.

"Why are you leaving that there?" Sherlock asked, never looking up from the eyepiece of the microscope as John left the plate beside him and began to walk away.

"Eat it," John ordered, turning back to look at Sherlock sternly.

"Not hungry," he replied flatly.

"Sherlock," John sighed, not ready to have this argument again. "You have to eat. You haven't eaten since Saturday. So eat it now or I'll shove it down your throat."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, continuing to ignore the toast and tea beside him.

"Just eat it," John told him, walking into the living room to watch television.  
Later that night, Sherlock was pacing around the living room, still running on empty - the cold toast was sitting untouched on the kitchen table.

John was resting in his armchair, reading the newspaper. He stretched his legs and yawned. He was tired and even listening to the swish of his dressing gown as Sherlock paced back and forth was making John feel exhausted. He had no idea how his flatmate hadn't collapsed yesterday, never mind how he was still bursting with energy now.

Suddenly, the pacing stopped as Sherlock growled and flopped onto the sofa, running his hands back and forth rapidly through his ebony curls. He buried his face into his hands and the stream of muttering that had accompanied the pacing ceased.

'Maybe he has collapsed after all,' John thought to himself, peering over the top of his paper at Sherlock.

"Maybe you should pack it in and get some sleep," John suggested, waiting to see if there was any chance his roommate might pass out.

"Shut up. Thinking," Sherlock replied bluntly.

"Sherlock, get some sleep. You'll be able to think much more clearly if you aren't tired."

"Shut up!" Sherlock snarled, lifting his head to glare at John before the muttering picked up again.

Without another word, John crossed the room and lifted out the blanket he kept there for occasions such as these. He opened it out and threw it around Sherlock's shoulders.

"Sleep," he ordered.

Sherlock raised his eyes to scowl at John. "I need to think," he repeated harshly but he didn't shrug the blanket off as John originally thought he might. That was something at least.

"Right, fine. You think but I'm going to bed," John informed him, yawning and shuffling towards the door. In the doorway, he paused to look back at Sherlock who had become a statue on the sofa, holding the sides of his head and his eyes were closed. He was moving his lips but making no sound and his eyelids flickered rapidly as he thought. John shook his head disbelievingly and trudged upstairs to his room.

He climbed into bed and relished in the soft coolness of his pillow against his head. His eyes fluttered shut and he was asleep within seconds.

A few hours later, although to John it felt more like minutes, he woke up, peering into the dark haze of his bedroom. Groggily he rolled over and checked his alarm clock. The glowing red numbers said it was 4:37 am.

'_Great_,' he thought, rubbing his eyes which were laced with sleep and still adjusting to the darkness. He yawned and stretched while his vision cleared. He ran a hand through his hair and let it drop behind his head on the pillow. Then with tremendous effort, he pulled himself up into a sitting position, letting his feet fall over the the edge of the bed.

John trudged downstairs to the kitchen to get a drink for himself. He opened the fridge and poured himself a glass of milk.

Glass in hand, he was all set to go back to bed but he stopped and walked back to the living room instead. He peered at the dark figure of the consulting detective lying on the sofa facing into the wall with his back to John. Was Sherlock actually asleep?

He crept over to Sherlock just to peer over his shoulder. The detective's breathing was slow and even - he seemed to be asleep.

Behind him, Sherlock could hear John tiptoeing closer to him. He turned his head to find the good doctor hanging over him, watching him as he lay there.  
John took a step back as Sherlock turned to face him.

"Oh, hey," he muttered. "Just checking if you were asleep."

"You need to learn to respect my boundaries, John," Sherlock chastised him with a condescending look.

John laughed and bit his bottom lip to catch the sound before it left his throat. It resulted in a strange snort and he struggled not to laugh as the corners of his lips turned up.

"_What_?" he choked out, trying to sound serious but failing miserably.

"You heard me," Sherlock responded coldly, turning his back to John and lying back down again.

John looked up to the ceiling as he tried to hold back his laughter.

"Are you, of all people, seriously lecturing me on '_boundaries_'?" The notion was completely ridiculous.

"Yes. You need to stop trying to enforce food and sleep on me when I'm trying to think," the curly haired man elaborated expressionlessly.

"I'm just trying to make sure you don't collapse," John protested.

"I'm aware of my own limits. Stop trying to force yours on me."

John lifted his hands, conceding. "Okay, okay," he said, deciding to get out of there before he laughed and insulted Sherlock. He didn't want a petulant detective sulking around the flat tomorrow.

He made it to his room before he gave in, laughing to himself and shaking his head in disbelief.

"I was just lectured on boundaries by Sherlock. By Sherlock Holmes. That is...surreal," he chuckled to himself.


End file.
